


You dirty Love

by Guts



Category: Snow White and the Huntsman
Genre: F/M, Southern modern au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-07
Updated: 2012-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-07 03:04:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/426237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guts/pseuds/Guts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You cut across the land,<br/> reply to American Ficathon on LJ.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You dirty Love

**Author's Note:**

> Am i getting better at action? No? I didnt think so?  
> I can see Kristen Stewart being a bad ass Kick ass character  
> http://sister-wife.livejournal.com/15920.html?thread=291888#t291888r.
> 
> HEY Dirty Love is a really good song, Really good.

He sees her, but the only thing he’s hearing is war war warwarwar. A steady, dizzying chant.  
Hes being filled up with her bloodshed and made right by her wrongs.

 

They bring swords to bed, and on more than one occasion cut the shitty motel bed to pieces.  
He sliced her across the face on Thursday, and its as if it was always there.

A thick, bruised line crusting with blood from her eyebrow across her nose, no sorry’s, no worry over it being healed.  
Only ‘what the hell did I say about scarin’ me awake, dumbass.’

 

They wake from sleep in fitful jerks, knives ready, knees and legs tight as bowstrings.  
“no one loves you.” She grins from above him, holding him in place.

“You are used.”and that does it, he see’s men fighting in her grin and brothers laid to waste in her eyes.  
He taught her secrets no one has a right to know.  
She told him the truth, so maybe that will be enough at the end of the day.  
She snaps her gum, slow and common in the car.

They are running from an aging beauty queen who dang les Virginia slims from her painted lips, the skin of her breasts is stretched and metallic-shiny with the weight of breast implants. He has kissed her throat, and recoiled at the thin, draping skin there.  
“Tell me I am beautiful.” She whispers hoarsely, her white, bleached hair curling onto his cheek.  
“you are beautiful.” He says and does not mean it.

She sends him on a journey, a quest, to pick up the high school girl in his rusting chevy.  
He sits on its bumper, pensive and smoking mechanically in the rain.  
He didn’t really even need to look, in the end. She stands out, like her aura is bright and expanding and clear and it is the only one.  
Her lips are bruise red, her cheeks white but then red when she sees his eyes on her.  
She is small and tall, and sloped where men find beautiful,   
He approaches and offers his hand.

She looks scared, but wild and sure. She is not afraid of him, she is afraid of the television shows that say men will drag you into ditches and cut your throat, kiss your nape and then rip your eyes out for a necklace.

She should really watch more television. 

 

She takes his hand, her fingers long and dainty, the long trill of her hand is smooth and beautiful.   
He kisses it, his eyes on her face.

She has the thick, Mississippi drawl of her long-gone, oil tycoon father.

He listens to her sing off key to the man on the radio singing about dirty euphuisms for sex, fishing and picking flowers in the woods.  
He has done this before, with chloroform rags and syringes filled with horrible things.

Theres no word for it, not a bounty hunter (too catchy), assassin isn’t it (flashy, too flashy. A killer settles, not right but okay.  
He is watching her, his eyes a liquid, sliding and catching every movement from the edge of his eyes.

“so, where we goin’?” she twangs, he reaches across to put the gun to her head but she’s got a baby gun pointed at his crotch already, her grin blown and wide like dynamite.

“you stupid sonuvabitch! Thinkin’ I don’t know a killer when I see one!” she spits a trail of brown out the open window and shakes her head, her voice trailing the ‘I’ into ‘ah’ and the lazy ‘bitch’ to ‘beyyetch’

 

“Aint’ like you got rope all in the back there, or that look in your eye.” She smiles at him, 

“how we doin this, cowboy? I shoot straight, and I shoot true, jus’ so you know.” 

The gun is small, feminine, but it will put a bullet straight into his groin and she is fierce.  
“so whats the story, morning glory?” she mutters at him, two miles down the road. 

He should tell her, ‘momma wants you dead’, but the perfection of her face tells him she already knows.  
“Whats tale, nightingale.” He shoots back, arms tense on the wheel. 

His wife died last winter, and all the alcohol bottles in the back are betraying him, her sweet, upturned nose that is the match of this impudent little woman in his passenger seat.   
“you aint gotta kill me now, you could just tell me what to do.”   
His eyes jerk to her, what is she saying?

“you know its wrong tryin’a shoot a sweet young thing barely out of high school, much less when she barely looked at you the wrong way” she goes on, the garbage accent piling on.  
She does not say that she knows about her mother shooting his wife in the chest, that she killed his dad because she thought junior would be a better killer for all the people she hated.   
She doesn’t need to. 

“All I’m sayin’ is, two is better than one. Your wife woulda wanted the right thing, wouldn’t she?” blue, sky high eyes squinting at him.  
“yes.” He says. 

Money is not worth some things and hot, squelching blood on his hands does not wash off.  
“ Lets go to Washington.” She says, resting her head on her arms and her arms on the window.  
“I hear the weather is nice this time’a year.” 

He laughs and the sound suprises him, she is such a monstrous little thing.  
She learns how to stab and shoot, (she’s a good liar) and when they’re standing outside her mothers secret house, the bushes barely hiding his height next to her tiny body,  
She whispers over to him.

“Whats the story, morning glory?” 

The body guard sees movement, he senses something, he is walking over to you.

The time is now, this is it, she will shoot straight and true and bring her mother to her knees.   
She bursts out of the bushes like hell-fire, brandishing her gun and swinging knives into every moving body. 

Little Snow is bursting through the glass and charging in to fight a whole army of bodyguards and trained professionals, you are following her, picking up the mess, whispering into the walky talky positions and twelve oh clocks, nines. 

You remember cutting across the land in your bust-up car, cutting across her face with accidental knives, her kisses cutting across your collarbone.

She shoots straight and she is true. 

She brings them all to her knee’s.


End file.
